


I'll Keep You Safe (Until Tomorrow)

by WoodlandGoddess1



Series: (I See) The Real You verse [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alpha Kallus, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Half-Zygerrian Kallus, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Slavery, Surgeries (Mentioned), abuse (mentioned), child abduction (mentioned), injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29630670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodlandGoddess1/pseuds/WoodlandGoddess1
Summary: Of all the people in the universe to find him covered in cum and almost dead in the snow, it had to be Han fucking Solo.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Series: (I See) The Real You verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138223
Comments: 19
Kudos: 42





	I'll Keep You Safe (Until Tomorrow)

**Author's Note:**

> In this second installment, we dive into Kallus' and his mother's backstory, and how Kallus ended up being Half-Zygerrian in this universe.
> 
> If y'all need a minute after reading it, or if ye can't bring yourselves to, that's totally fair!
> 
> A Big Thank You to Mudkip for beta-reading this.

It wasn’t the Empire in the end.

Alexsandr blinked slowly, a thick dusting of frost cracking across his lashes, as something large and brown emerged from the twisting flurries of snow. A sluggish fear creeped into his chest as the being crouched over him and large hands scooped him up from the frozen ground with little effort. Something golden tumbled from his chest to his belly, familiar and heavy, and precious to him. Unable to move, unable to think with his usual clarity, it was all Alexsandr could do to register the nauseating swirl of white as the being turned and carried him out into the blinding snow, to register the welcome prickle of warmth against his face and side as the being cradled him against their musky, soft torso.

“Found a live one, huh?” Somewhere, somehow, a familiar voice broke through the harsh temperatures and hurried footsteps crunched through the snow, bringing a hooded figure into view. A wide rim of fur distorted their features. “I checked the crash site. I didn’t see bodies down there. Let’s thaw him out on the _Falcon_ and cut a deal.”

Falcon.

_Han Solo_.

A bitter laugh bubbled up from his chest and the world faded to black.

* * *

Of all the people in the universe to find him covered in cum and almost dead in the snow, it had to be Han fucking Solo, whose smug smirk as he leaned against the door frame and folded his arms across his chest made Alexsandr want to beat seven kinds of shit out of him. He couldn’t stop his fingers from curling into fists, from almost tearing through one of the heated blankets that had been thrown over him. He couldn’t stop a flush of humiliation from burning across his face as Solo raked him with his lecherous and knowing gaze, taking in the copious amounts of blue-lilac cum staining his uniform shirt and trousers. 

“See, now, I’m not a bad guy, Agent Kallus,” Solo said slowly, his head tilting, his smirk deepening. “You’ll be dropped off at some Imperial outpost or something, no worries, but we both know there’s going to be a _lot_ of questions about those _stains_. We both know that spunk ain’t Human. So, how about this: we’ll wash those and keep our mouths shut...for a price.”

“You’ll be paid upon the safe return of —”

“No, no,” Solo interrupted abruptly, a more serious note replacing his smirk. He straightened and stepped deeper into the room. His actions brought immediate attention to the blaster holstered at his hip. “You know how this works, Agent Kallus; we’re getting paid in advance. You’re not pulling a fast one on me.”

“I don’t have credits on me.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for credits,” Solo answered as his gaze dropped to the blanket concealing the bulk of his legs, the bulk of his bo-rifle.

Alexsandr clenched his jaw, his sense of humiliation morphing into anger. His fists did tear through the blanket then. The ripping sound was loud and almost jarring, almost enough to make him jump, almost enough to make him rip his gaze from Solo and stare at the tears. But not quite. Alexsandr said quietly, his voice turning dangerous, “You’re a bastard.”

“I prefer the term _businessman_.” Solo laughed drily, adding, “You’re one to talk though. I’m sure most of the Outer Rim wants to shoot that pretty, arrogant face off.”

_How does it feel, knowin’ no one can fuckin’ stand ya?!_

Alexsandr swallowed thickly, unwelcome words rising at the back of his mind.

Fortunately, the approach of heavy, distinct footsteps helped him focus on the present instead of uncomfortable memories and Alexsandr watched as Chewbacca — the Wookie that carried him back to the _Millennium Falcon_ — ducked into the room behind Solo, speaking in an irritated fashion as Solo turned to look at him. 

Alexsandr tilted his head. His gaze narrowed in concentration as he tried to parse through the crooning growls, the aggressive hand gestures, and the snarling twist of glistening lips. He’d learned shyriiwook at the academy, at the suggestion of his mentor, but it had been so long since he’d made active use of the language that much of his knowledge had faded. But Alexsandr caught a few words, though not quite enough to paint a full picture.

_Don’t....that! …regret… weapon! What if...Lasat?!_

“The odds of that happening are slim to none, Chewie. And even if we do, it won’t be in our hands for that long. We’ll be fine,” Solo said as he waved a dismissive hand. He returned his attention to Alexsandr, his gaze narrowing. “Just like an ISB Agent to nose in on other peoples’ conversations.”

“You’re talking right in front of me. You expect me to pretend I don’t exist?” 

“Would be helpful sometimes.” Solo stepped closer, the fingers of one hand moving to hover over his blaster, and stretched out the other in expectation. “C’mon. Hand it over. You’ve eaten into our schedule enough as it is.” 

Alexsandr glared at him and then glanced at Chewbacca as the Wookie seemed to stretch even taller, his irritation turning to anger as that blue gaze locked on to Solo and his outstretched hand. Slowly, his attention fixed on the Wookie, Alexsandr tossed the blanket aside and loosened the bindings keeping the bo-rifle strapped to his leg before shoving the weapon at Solo with a snarl.

An absurd satisfaction washed through him when Chewbacca ripped the bo-rifle out of reach almost as soon as Solo touched it. His satisfaction turned into a smirk when the Wookie stomped away, growling and crooning at Solo, who chased after him as he called angrily, “What do you _mean_ we’re not selling it?! Those things are worth a _fortune_!”

The door slid shut.

Alexsandr released a breath and looked down at his leg, where he knew bruised and swollen flesh dwelled beneath his stained trousers. He looked at the door. He thought about forcing himself to his feet and following the distant argument bouncing off the walls, but he didn’t have the strength — as much as it pained him to admit. He’d poured his entire being into surviving those beasts in the cavern and then he’d thrown extra into…the aftermath. Alexsandr knew he had nothing left to give, nothing but thoughts and emotions running on fumes.

Slowly, Alexsandr relaxed into the various blankets and soft cushions propping him up, listening to the echoing silence that fell when Solo gave up the argument with his hairy, relentless crewmate. Wookies didn’t know when to quit. He knew that from experience. In this instance, of course, such stubbornness seemed to be in his favour; the thought of his bo-rifle disappearing into the black market didn’t appeal to him.

A green gaze filled with surprise and recognition flickered through his memories.

Uncomfortable, Alexsandr swallowed and pushed the memories aside. He had no time for such things; if he was to be presentable, then he had to focus on the matter at hand. Tugging one of the blankets closer, he removed his cuirass and began undoing the buttons of his shirt. He soon shrugged the garment off his shoulders, leaving him in just his charcoal undershirt. Alexsandr reached under the blanket and unbuckled his belt before slowly, and carefully, shucking his trousers, wriggling his hips in small increments until the fabric came loose.

No matter how careful Alexsandr was, of course, each shift jostled his leg, sending burning pain through his thigh and past his hip, finding its home in his lower back. He stopped moving before long. The pain was unimaginable, a fire worse than he’d experienced when he’d first come to after breaking the leg — no doubt worsened from the events that unfolded in the cavern. 

Alexsandr didn’t know how long he sat and just breathed through the agony, one blanket pooled in his lap, and his trousers still gathered around his thighs. His fingers curled around one cushion and dug in deep. He moistened his lips and clenched his jaw with determination before learning forward as far as he could. He strained to undo the laces of his uniform boots, kicking them off quickly, ignoring the almost blinding spike of pain as dark spots danced through his vision and threatened to steal his breath. Alexsandr slumped against the wall then.

Unconsciousness threatened to claim him once more.

Growling, unwilling to pass out in the middle of such blatant indecency, Alexsandr reached down inside himself and pulled on those last few fumes of lingering energy, using them to shuck his trousers off at last. Finally, he pulled off his gloves and let them join the heap of clothes waiting to be laundered. He bundled himself up in the blankets then and allowed himself a burst of pride, ignoring his torn boxer shorts and the memories it threatened to bring to the surface. He focused his attention on the door, wondering when Solo or Chewbacca would come to collect his things and launder them as arranged. Alexsandr didn’t know how long he stared at the door before those heavy, distinct footsteps returned and Chewbacca stepped back into the room. 

Much to his surprise, Chewbacca carried a medkit in his hands. 

Alexsandr watched him approach warily, confused and uncertain. 

Chewbacca crooned at him and gestured to his leg, his expression softer than expected.

“Why,” Alexsandr asked quietly, his voice sharp with his confusion. He glanced at the glowing meteorite sitting nearby, its familiar warmth and what it represented mocking him even as he spoke. “We’re enemies. I’ve not been kind to Wookies in the past.”

_Don’t...seeing...suffer. You...I...enemies, but Lasan...friends. You...Lasat...together...moon._

Alexsandr paled immediately, drawing back against the wall of the ship, knowing the stains on his uniform had given Chewbacca more information than he’d like. It was bad enough that the crew of the _Millennium Falcon_ knew he’d fucked someone that wasn’t Human. That the Wookie knew it was a Lasat was so much worse and so much more damning. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out which one — there were so few left. Alexsandr knew it would be his head on a silver platter, if the Empire ever learned the truth.

Interspecies relations were frowned upon.

Fraternising with a rebel was nothing short of treason.

Chewbacca opened the medkit and pulled out a vial of liquid bacta to show him. It was almost empty, with just a fraction of a dose left at the end of the bottle, shining in the light from overhead. Chewbacca frowned down at the bottle before huffing and crooning at him again.

_It...much...but...help a little._

Alexsandr wasn’t fool enough to think the Wookie would hand him a needle and let him do the injection himself. His lips thinning, he sat in tense silence for several moments, his mind turning over the situation at hand. Finally, Alexsandr pulled back the blanket to reveal his swollen and mottled thigh.

The noise Chewbacca made was universal.

Alexsandr couldn’t help grunting in agreement.

Chewbacca reached into the medkit again to retrieve one of the sealed and sterile needles that came within as standard and opened it slowly, his large fingers careful. He inserted the needle into the bottle and drew the liquid bacta into the base, pulling the plunger back with care. He dislodged all possible air bubbles before inserting the long needle into his thigh and pressing the plunger, injecting the liquid bacta straight into the worst area.

Alexsandr gritted his teeth as he felt the immediate prickling cold sensation in the middle of his leg and breathed through the strangeness until it turned warm. Until he knew the bacta was starting to do its job, starting to heal what it could. Alexsandr covered himself with the blanket once more and watched as Chewbacca closed the medkit before rising quietly, ducking down to gather his discarded clothes into his arms. 

Chewbacca crooned at him again.

_Rest. When...better, I...you...shower._

Chewbacca didn’t wait for his response before leaving the room.

Alexsandr watched him go and couldn’t help but wonder where his life went wrong, what mistakes he’d made to bring him to such a low point — that he’d have to depend on people he’d tried to capture, people he’d tried to incarcerate or worse. People that ought to shoot him where he sprawled. Memories of staring down the barrel of a bo-rifle flickered to the surface, bringing with them a flash of soft green and rich purple, and the remembered sense of clenching heat as powerful muscle rippled. 

“Stop,” Alexsandr whispered to himself in mortified anger. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks as his blood rushed south without warning, his sudden erection hot and aching beneath the blanket. His hands curled into fists for the second time. A growl rumbled up from his chest and his whisper sharpened with reprimand. “Stop that. Stop thinking about it. You can’t afford to think about it.”

Alexsandr spent the next ten minutes ignoring the throbbing heat between his legs, the eager clench in his belly, the breath quickening in his chest. He focused on counting, on reciting the Imperial Directives he’d learned at the academy, on imagining the Emperor naked — whatever he could think of that might quell his unwelcome arousal. But he soon found — just as he had on that blasted moon — that diverting his thoughts did almost nothing to distract him from the sharp lust rising beneath his skin. Alexsandr dashed a hand across his face, pushing the beading sweat back into his hair.

It wasn’t over, Alexsandr realised.

The rut...or whatever it was...wasn’t over, though it seemed less intense than it had on the frozen moon. Though that might be due to the absence of Garazeb Orrelios, the...omega...that started all this distressing nonsense. Whatever the fuck an omega was. The word alone left him feeling confused and out of breath. It made his cock pulse against his thigh. Realising there was nothing else he could do, nothing to make the situation go the fuck _away_ , Alexsandr shoved a hand under the blanket and palmed himself. 

Alexsandr bit down on his other hand in an attempt to muffle the groan that escaped him.

Pain flared sharp and bright.

The tang of copper flooded his mouth.

Alexsandr whimpered weakly, his head a little woozy, but didn’t stop stroking until his frame tensed and he felt that shooting sensation in his cock again. That sensation he’d felt each time he’d cum inside Orrelios, each time he’d...latched. Panting heavily, and blood dripping from his lip, Alexsandr was too afraid to look under the blanket and see the barb Orrelios insisted he had. 

The misshapen puncture marks he’d left on the back of his hand were jarring enough.

Alexsandr hadn’t done _that_ to Orrelios.

His heart thumping, Alexsandr couldn’t help remembering the hours he’d spent in front of the mirror in the refresher at home, thumbing his sharp canines and frowning as he’d wondered what made him different from the other Human children his age. What made them get nervous around him and avoid him on the local school grounds. His mother, so soft and affectionate, had drawn him back from the mirror each time. Alexsandr couldn’t help remembering how she’d rubbed a soothing hand through his hair and down between his shoulder blades the first time she’d caught him in front of the mirror, murmuring, “It can happen sometimes. We all have our own quirks. It makes us special.”

“I don’t want to be special. I want to be like the others!”

Alexsandr hadn’t thought about that conversation — about his sharper canines — in so long. Not since he’d sat his entrance exam and packed his bags for the academy, not since he’d boarded the shuttle waiting to take him from their small town on Alderaan and bring him to Coruscant. He hadn’t wanted to become a soldier in the beginning, but he’d thought disappearing into the bustling multitudes of Coruscant was better than sticking out like a sore thumb on his homeworld. He hadn’t thought about his oddities then. He’d focused on the praise he’d received from his instructors, praise for his sharp reflexes and his quick thinking, for his abilities in the training room as he’d knocked cadet after cadet to the matted floor and kept them there, feeling happier than he ever had before. Alexsandr had belonged there, in combat. 

It had given him a sense of fulfilment and purpose that he’d never felt before.

Nervous shuffling had become jealous glares and sulking.

And it made him smirk with triumph.

Staring down at the puncture marks, feeling a familiar sense of panic rising, Alexsandr knew he’d have to go home to his mother as soon as possible. He’d have to ask her about his medications, his canines, his...his treasonous actions on that accursed moon. He’d have to find out what she knew, who his father was and where he’d come from. He’d have to find out what he was and decide what he was going to do about it. As much as he’d prefer to pretend that nothing was happening, that nothing was _changing_ , his behaviour since crashing on that moon couldn’t be denied and Alexsandr couldn’t blame it on missing his medications — he’d never heard of withdrawals causing people to behave as he had.

But such thoughts were for later.

For now….

For now, Alexsandr would have to focus on keeping himself calm and preventing himself from thinking of Orrelios, from getting aroused again. He’d have to keep his chin as high as he could manage and return to the _Relentless_ , however long it took him to do so. He wasn’t fool enough to think Solo would bring the _Millennium Falcon_ straight to the flagship; he was an infamous deserter and Admiral Konstantine would shoot him in a heartbeat. No, Solo would drop him off on some dust bowl and expect him to walk to the nearest Imperial outpost. 

_That_ was something he could do.

And it was what he _did_ when Solo dumped him on Tatooine, shoving his laundered clothes into his arms and threatening him with cleaning bills for staining his blankets — while Chewbacca laughed in the background.

The walk from the bustling spaceport to the Imperial Information Centre just outside of Mos Eisley, which existed as a reluctant courtesy, was long and torturous. Though the bacta had done its job, his leg was nowhere near being healed entirely, and the grating bone screamed with each deliberate step he took. Sharp spasms ran through his bruised and swollen thigh. It was sheer force of will that kept him standing, that kept him from collapsing as a bunch of inexperienced officers squeaked at the sight of him and almost fell over themselves in their haste to leave their desks as he burst through the door, his face drained of colour and his uniform drenched with sweat. It kept him from drowning himself in the bottles of water the officers brought him and from sagging into the chair that was brought for him to sit on. 

It was sheer force of will that kept him snapping orders.

His burst of snapped orders kept the inexperienced officers from questioning his unexpected presence and his lack of weapon. It kept them from questioning his injury; it was none of their business, after all. Most importantly, it kept them from questioning the meteorite his hand gripped like a vice, which hadn’t left his side since he’d been pulled from the ice and snow. 

Alexsandr didn’t allow himself to rest until the shuttle came for him. Until he’d settled into one of the passenger seats and strapped himself in. Until he felt the engines start to sing and the shift in altitude prickling in his ears. He allowed himself to rest then. Alexsandr allowed himself to tip his head back against the hull and let the vibrations of the ship put him straight to sleep, straight into that dreamless void that had comforted him since he’d left home.

His return to the _Relentless_ happened with little fanfare. 

If possible, Admiral Konstantine seemed less enthused to see him than usual.

Alexsandr was accustomed to dark glares, to tense shoulders and clipped words; being seen as intimidating was one of the perks of working for the ISB, who existed outside the standard structure, who could swoop in and commandeer an ISD at will. But this cold indifference to his return from suspected death was...unexpected at best. Jarring, at worst. It left him standing in the corridor, pain screaming through his leg, unable to find words as he watched Admiral Konstantine walk away, face still buried in his datapad as though he couldn’t muster enough concern to glance up. It left him with a hollow ache behind his sternum.

Alexsandr wasn’t sure when he started moving, when he reached his assigned quarters.

All he knew was the bubble of nerves that rose inside him and threatened to steal his breath.

Alexsandr set his meteorite on the shelf above his bed and sat down heavily, scrubbing his hands over his face before pushing them through his hair and pulling until his scalp ached.

“It shouldn’t matter,” Alexsandr told himself as he stared at the floor, doing his best to avoid thinking of that moon and the obvious affection Orrelios received when the _Ghost_ arrived to pick him up. “It shouldn’t matter that he doesn’t care that I’m alive. I’m one man. The mission is more important. That hasn’t changed and it never will.”

The words sounded hollow in his own ears.

Alexsandr ignored it and reached for his personal datapad. The screen came to life with the press of a button and he stared at it for a few moments before opening a template to write a report of the incident. He was honest about following the rebel insurgent to the escape pod. He was honest about the vicious fight that fucked it all up, sending them careening into that frozen wasteland. And then Alexsandr paused as shame and guilt stoked the flames of indecision.

Alexsandr scrubbed a tired hand over his face, his gloved fingers dragging through his mutton chops. He stared down at the screen once more. He...he should be honest in the report. He knew he ought to hand in his rank plate and turn himself in to the authorities, but the thought of his mother kept him from following through. Too easily, Alexsandr could remember his mother bursting into the medbay, her face pale behind her tears, when she’d learned about what happened to him on Onderon. 

His hand drifted to his sternum and rubbed at the building ache there.

Alexsandr couldn’t do something like that to her again. 

Hating himself and hating Orrelios even more, Alexsandr continued tapping the letters on his screen and falsified his report with one lie after another, each one coming easier than the last one had. Of course, he was alone when he woke. He’d been left for dead. Rebels had no respect for life, after all. He’d modified the transponder to increase his chances of survival and he’d forced himself to walk — to find an exit to the cavern. He’d fought a creature during his escape from the cavern and it put further strain on his injured leg. In the process, he’d found the meteorite and its warmth helped him survive the frigid temperatures. And then he’d traded his bo-rifle for safe passage back to an Imperial outpost when a merchant vessel responded to the transponder signal.

His expression grave, Alexsandr submitted the report in silence and swallowed the surge of bile that rose in his throat. He set his datapad aside and forced himself to rise, knowing he’d need a medical report to corroborate his own report of his injuries. He forced himself to walk out of his quarters and to the medbay, where he signalled the attention of one of the medical droids, which bustled over to him at once. Alexsandr sat on one of the medical beds without prompting, his teeth clenching against the familiar burning pain.

His awareness of the events after that blurred. 

Vaguely, Alexsandr remembered a mention of convalescence, of healing and rehabilitation. He remembered Yularen peering at him through a holocommunication as the medical droid droned on and on without making sense. And he remembered the press of durasteel crutches into his hands, and the feeling that this was wrong, wrong, wrong. Alexsandr didn’t remember the return to his quarters, but remembered the arrival of a junior officer, who packed his meagre belongings into a travel case.

The next thing Alexsandr remembered was looking out the window of a shuttle and seeing Istabith Falls, a surge of emotion rising in his chest as he watched the familiar rush of water crashing down the mountainside from several tiered points and pooling below, winding through the sprawling forest at the base of Appenza Peak. His home, his mother, was so close now and that knowledge breathed a spark of life back into him. His mind found its focus as the shuttle wound around the mountainside, initiating a careful descent until it settled on the small landing pad just at the edge of his hometown of Assilom.

Assilom was just as he remembered it: a few businesses and public amenities around the town square and a sprawling collection of handsome townhouses, some as fresh as the air in the mountains around them and others as old as the settlement itself. Really, it was too small to be considered a township, but there was an air of grandeur that elevated it to something more than it was. 

His arms aching, Alexsandr exited the shuttle on his crutches, relieved to see that his mother wasn’t waiting for him at the edge of the landing pad. Her absence gave him time to gather his thoughts, to prepare himself for the conversation ahead of him. His mind whirring, Alexsandr began the trek to Maria Kallus’ townhouse, nestled closest to the mountainside, and did his best to ignore the officer following along behind him with his travel case — which was proving more and more difficult because the woman wouldn’t shut up about how beautiful the locale was, how tranquil. How she couldn’t imagine wanting to leave such a place, even to pursue a career as fine as his.

Alexsandr gritted his teeth and said nothing. 

His reasons for leaving were none of her fucking business. 

It was a relief when Alexsandr reached the traditional double doors of his childhood home. It was a comfort to see the handsome white walls, the dark roof slates and shutters, and the lanterns that framed the double doors. It was even more comforting to see the potted plants blooming beneath the ground floor windows, memories of helping his mother tend to them as a child tumbling through his mind. Alexsandr ordered the officer to set down his travel case and leave before pressing the buzzer, his gaze fixed on the retreating officer, tracking her until she disappeared from view and the weight eased from his shoulders. 

It wasn’t long until one of the doors opened inwards and revealed Maria Kallus. 

His mother gasped at the sight of him and wrenched the reinforced door open wider, the familiar scent of her favourite meiloorun tea wafting around her. Her long tresses framed her face and spilled over her shoulders, a rich iron bleeding into the warm red from her temples. A streak of paint stained the curve of her cheek. Looking at her, his mother seemed so much older than he remembered and so much more fragile, her frame so much slighter than his. Soft wrinkles appeared as she frowned deeply, startled and concerned for his wellbeing, her hands reaching for him without question. 

Alexsandr dropped his crutches at once and staggered into her arms, a noise of distress bubbling up in his throat against his will. He tucked his head into her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her jogan shampoo and shuddering, another wave of emotion surging in his chest. His fingers dug into her slender back as she squeezed him close, nuzzling the top of his head as she had so often when he was a child.

“No one informed me,” his mother said softly, withdrawing, her long fingers capturing his chin as she studied his face in growing concern. Her gaze flicked to the crutches and back again. “What happened out there, Sasha?” 

“Not here, Mama.” Alexsandr shook his head. “Help me with the case?”

His mother studied him for a moment longer before nodding, offering one more worried smile as she patted his cheek with all the affection he’d remembered. She ducked down to scoop up his crutches with one hand and his travel case with the other, stepping backwards and propping her slender shoulder against the door to keep it open for him. His mother handed him his crutches without a word as she studied the landscape behind him shrewdly, gravitating towards the path leading back to town and the landing pad.

Alexsandr hopped across the threshold carefully, ensuring he didn’t hit her sandaled feet with his crutches, and headed upstairs to the art studio, where he’d spent much of his childhood. The immediate smell of paint was a balm to his soul and seeing the haphazard collection of canvasses brought a faint smile to his lips, affection winding around his heart like a vine. It wasn’t a surprise to see a glossy, handsome painting of himself on the wall to the right. Nor was Alexsandr surprised to see another painting of a little girl near the window, cherubic face familiar and foreign at the same time, one he’d seen time and time again without ever learning her name or who she was to his mother. 

His mother never spoke of her.

Alexsandr stared at the painting for several moments, his mind whirring with even more questions, before exhaling and moving to the long charcoal couch nestled against the wall to the left. He sank down against the familiar cushions with a soft groan of relief and set his crutches aside immediately, his attention drawn to the door as his mother stepped inside, having dropped his travel case off in his old room across the corridor. Alexsandr watched as she drew her painting stool over to the couch and folded herself onto it with a grace that never ceased to surprise him.

Her knees brushed against his. 

Her hands were warm when she wrapped them around his.

“Talk to me, Sasha.”

“Something happened to me,” Alexsandr answered hesitantly, his attention flicking to the painting of himself. To the sharp brows and square jaw, to the plush lips that concealed his sharpened canines. To the intense stare mirrored back at him. Alexsandr swallowed and returned his attention to his mother, to the shine of concern in her gaze. “On a moon near Geonosis.”

“I can see that.”

“No, Mama. The leg is irrelevant.” Alexsandr released a nervous breath and stared at his mother, his expression almost pleading. His frame tensed a heartbeat after hers did and he knew his mother knew what he was talking about then. It emboldened him to add quietly, “I forgot to bring the medication with me.”

Dark lashes fluttered closed. 

His mother dropped his hands and left her stool a moment later, her shoulders hunching as she turned from him without a word. She moved closer to the window, her fingers shaking as she brushed them against the edge of the old painting, as though seeking comfort or strength. His mother wrapped her arms around herself then and her fingers blanched where she gripped her own arms.

“The medication isn’t for allergies, is it?”

“No,” his mother answered. Her voice cracked. “No, it isn’t.”

“What is it?”

“A hormone suppressant. You’ve been on them since we came here.”

“Came here,” Alexsandr repeated in surprise. “I thought I was born on Alderaan.”

“Your papers were forged.” His mother turned from the window, her expression bleak as tears slid down her face, dragging paint down her cheek. “You were never supposed to find out. It was to keep us safe, to keep us undetected.”

“Undetected?!” The word hit him like a slap. It spurred him to action immediately, his leg screaming as he rose from the couch and hobbled across the room to his mother. He caught her shoulders in a tight grip and her hands came to grip his elbows, a tremor running down her arms as she stared back at him through her tears. “Is someone after us?”

“Yes...no...I don’t know.” His mother shook her head. Her tears intensified. “It’s been so long.”

“So long since what?!”

“Since I _escaped_!”

Silence rang through the art studio in the wake of her outburst. 

Alexsandr and his mother stared at each other for another heartbeat before an ugly, broken noise escaped her and she crumpled into his arms, her knees giving out. He staggered back a step under her added weight and almost lost his balance, his leg shrieking, but didn’t let her go for a single moment. He crushed her against his chest instead and struggled to swallow his own rising emotions as his mother sobbed openly, as though a dam had broken inside her and now the townhouse would be flooded with her anguish. Clutching her close, his face buried in her hair, Alexsandr didn’t know what to do, how to quell the tide. 

Alexsandr settled for following the steps she’d used whenever he was upset as a child. He settled for holding her, letting her soak his shirt with tears and paint. He held her for what felt like hours. He held her until her sobs died down to ragged sniffles and hiccoughs, and then guided her back to the couch with a gentle arm around her as he hobbled beside her. Alexsandr helped her sit down and then sat down heavily, drawing her close to his side and letting her curl up around him as he’d often curled around her when he was a child.

“Talk to me, Mama. Please.” 

“I...I was born on Coruscant.” The words were a strained whisper, almost disappearing into the fabric of his shirt as his mother spoke. “I was out running errands when I was taken. Just a few blocks from home. I was fifteen.”

Alexsandr buried his face in her hair, dread crawling across his skin.

“I woke up on some dank ship, crammed into a cell with several others.” Her fingers curled around a tight fistful of his shirt. “We were taken to a slave market and...and a Zygerrian noble took an interest. He _bought_ me like I was an _animal_.”

His ears started to ring almost immediately, remembered words from dozens of his own reports stabbing through his mind in an instant. Memories of Wookies and other sentient species in chains glared at him in silent accusation. Nausea began to churn in his gut.

“He forced me,” his mother croaked. “Over and over.”

“No.” Alexsandr shook his head and wrenched himself away, bile rising in his throat. He almost fell in his haste to escape the couch. His haste to escape the words she spoke. His own voice started to rise, to sharpen like a knife with panicked denial. “No, no, _no_. I can’t listen to this.”

“I had a daughter, a beautiful little girl.” His mother rose to follow him. “Your sister.”

“ _No_ , Mama.” Alexsandr buried his hands in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. “ _Stop_.”

“Mila was taken from me when she was five. You were born six months later —”

“I said _stop_ ,” Alexsandr snapped through a vicious growl — not unlike the sounds he’d heard himself make on that accursed moon — and whirled around with such force that her easel toppled when his elbow knocked against it. Canvass, water, brushes, and paint hit the floor with a crash. His face blanched with sickened realisation when his mother flinched with instinctive fear, her face draining of colour behind paint and tears, recognition flashing through her gaze in an instant as she retreated from him. Alexsandr stepped toward her immediately, reaching for her, his voice dropping to a strangled whisper. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m...I’m _sorry_ , Mama.”

His mother shook her head and crouched to start picking up her things, her long white skirts trailing through growing puddles of paint as red as blood. Her hands shook as she picked through broken glass to collect her brushes, ignoring him as she focused on the simple task.

“Mama…”

“Just...give me a minute.”

“ _You_ didn’t give _me_ a minute.”

“I know. I just...I thought getting it out in one go would be better, less...painful.” His mother deflated and bowed her head. A bitter laugh bubbled up from her chest. Such bitterness sounded _wrong_ coming from his mother. She’d been a source of light and warmth for as long as Alexsandr could remember. “I should’ve known better. You and I are too alike, too quick to react to distress.”

“Mama…”

Slowly, his mother straightened from her crouched position. Her hand curled tight around her brushes and her knuckles whitened with strain. Her tresses hung down to conceal her face.

“Your sister was more like him.” Her free hand reached up to dash across her face, smearing through tears and paint. His mother turned to him and the desolate expression on her face devastated him. “She had his temper, his claws, his feline sense of balance. Small patches of fur even started cropping up on her back a few weeks before she was taken from me.”

“Why,” Alexsandr whispered. “Why was she taken?”

“Because her natural instinct to protect me was greater than her fear of him. Greater than the efforts I went to, to keep her temper under control.” His mother moved past him and deposited her brushes on a shelf nearby, the chinar wood clattering from the force. “He slapped me hard enough to knock me against his desk and Mila lost control. She jumped on him and started tearing into his leg. He took her actions as proof that he was being too lenient with us, too gentle. And I _never_ saw her again.”

“Is she…?”

“I’d prefer to think so,” his mother croaked. “It would be better than the alternative.”

“Oh, Mama.” Alexsandr staggered over to her and drew her into his arms. “I wish I’d known.”

“But whatever happened to her, I knew I couldn’t let him do it again. Never again.” His mother dug her fingers into his back as her voice choked up. “I started making plans for an escape. You were two when I found the chance. I stabbed him in his throat while he was sleeping, grabbed a small chest full of credits, and strapped you to my back before running, running as fast as I could. I used what I’d learned of the estate, of the guard patrols out in the streets, to avoid detection for as long as possible and stole a small starship.” 

Alexsandr squeezed her closer, nuzzling his face into her hair, a quiet rumbling sound rising from his chest. It took him a few moments to realise it was a fucking purr. But the realisation didn’t jar him enough to disrupt his attempt to comfort his mother. Alexsandr just held her that bit tighter, relieved that her instinctive fear of him seemed to have faded. 

“I almost crashed into another ship when we emerged from hyperspace. I recognised it immediately, remembered a similar ship coming and going from Coruscant when I was a girl. I hit the distress signal and started hailing, and wouldn’t stop until someone answered me. That someone was Bail Organa.”

“He knows about us?!”

“Yes.” His mother withdrew as she nodded her head. Her shaking hands pushed her hair back over her shoulders. A smile curled her lips despite the tears clinging to her lashes. “He was so kind and welcoming, so full of mercy, and I just...broke down in front of him. It was his idea to hide here. He had our papers forged and found this house for us. And then he found the medic that performed our surgeries, though I paid for them with the credits I stole. I could think of nothing more fitting.”

“Surgeries?” Alexsandr tensed. His voice sharpened. “What surgeries?”

“A skin graft to cover the brand that marked me as a slave and a reconstructive procedure.” His mother stared at him despairingly, her fingers rising to touch one of his ears. Her thumb caressed the lobe with heart-breaking tenderness. “You were made to seem as Human as possible, but his blood still shone through all the same...even with suppressants to keep most of it under control. You were that bit stronger, that bit faster, and had a natural presence that made others nervous. You excelled at athletics and intimidation because of it.”

Automatically, his mind flashed back to the training room at the academy, to the bursts of speed that propelled him ahead of the other cadets as he climbed and jumped and sprinted. It flashed back to the ease with which he’d slammed the others into the training mat. Worse, it flashed back to the siege on Lasan and the abject shock that rippled across furred features when he met that first guardsman blow for blow, unwavering, his knees and elbows never buckling despite the increasing pressure as his opponent recovered from their shock and snarled in his face, throwing their entire being into the duel.

Alexsandr stepped away, rasping, “How much of what I’ve earned is because of _me_ and not because of _him_?”

“Brute strength and speed are nothing without a sharp mind.” His mother curled her fingers through the air where he’d stood a moment earlier, heartache softening her gaze. She dropped her hand to her side. “Your mind is what brings victory, Sasha. You should know that.”

“I don’t know _anything_ anymore!” Alexsandr staggered over to the couch as soon as the anguished words escaped him and dropped down on the cushions with a pained cry, hating himself and hating his...his _father_. Heat prickled beneath his lashes. Bile rose in his throat and he forced himself to swallow it down. Alexsandr buried his face in his hands, his shoulders hunching, “I felt like an _animal_ on that moon! I felt like I was losing control of who I was until —”

Alexsandr broke off sharply, his mind rebelling at the memories, but his skin flushing hot. 

“Baby, _no_ ,” his mother protested. She closed the distance between them immediately, dropping to her knees in front of him and pulling his hands from his face, squeezing them tight against her heart. “You’re _not_ an animal. _Never_ think that. We can’t help what we’re born into.”

“Mama,” Alexsandr croaked abruptly, his skin burning, “I slept with him.”

“With who?”

“With a...a rebel. On that moon.” His face twisted as hot tears dripped down his cheeks and disappeared into his mutton chops. Shame clawed through his insides without relent. The tears wouldn’t stop coming, no matter how hard he tried to control his breathing, to control himself. “I couldn’t stop. I...I’ve never...before...with someone. He just...he smelled so _good_. I’d never smelt something like it before. I didn’t know what was happening to me. He tried to tell me, but I didn’t believe him. I didn’t _want_ to believe him.” 

“Oh, _Sasha_.” His mother scrambled up onto the couch to pull him into her arms, her own tears bubbling up all over again. “That must’ve been so difficult to deal with. I’m so, _so sorry_ , you had to find out like this. In a better galaxy, we’d never have had to hide. You’d never have been in that position.” 

Automatically, Alexsandr opened his mouth to respond about his work with the Empire, his work with the ISB, and closed his mouth again as unwelcome memories of Orrelios, memories of Chewbacca, burned through his mind like a wildfire. Memories of their kindness charred all the words he’d been trained to voice, stopping them in his throat and filling his mouth with ash.

Neither of them spoke again.

His mother just held him close, guiding his face down to her shoulder as she often did when he was a boy, when the ongoing isolation from his peers brought him low enough to weep. Her fingers soothed through his hair, soothed that spot behind his shoulder blades. Her own tears were forgotten as she hummed a soft tune against his scalp, the light vibrations rippling through his skin and reminding him of the purring sound he’d made earlier. 

It made his frame soften. 

It calmed the blood in his veins.

It slowed his tears until he was tired and heavy, almost useless in her embrace. 

Slowly, his mother helped him to lie down on the couch and stretch out his aching leg. She settled behind him and wrapped her arm around him to keep him close, to keep him from falling off the edge of the couch. 

Between her soft humming, and the heaviness in his frame, it wasn’t long until Alexsandr fell asleep.

* * *

Morning after morning, Alexsandr visited the local medical centre to receive a shot of bacta into his leg, each one healing him a little bit more. If he asked them to give him partial-doses, and bribed them with a clip full of credits to encourage secrecy, that was his own business. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to heal…but he knew he couldn’t return to his post. Not until he knew more about himself and his abilities, how his new hormones would continue to affect him. It was obvious that he couldn’t go back to taking the suppressants, not if missing them could mean a repeat of what happened on that frozen moon. Alexsandr had to learn how to control himself in his natural state.

Getting to spend more time with his mother was just a pleasant bonus.

In the evenings, Alexsandr stood in the art studio after supper, leaning on his crutches for what felt like hours. He gazed at the painting of his elder sister, immortalised as a child forever, and wondered. He wondered what happened to her, whether he could find her, and whether his mother needed the closure of knowing, or whether that need for closure was _his_. 

His late nights were spent researching his physiology, learning how the new hormones flooding his frame affected his musculature, his reproductive organs, and even his extensive set of vocal cords. Where Humans had two cords, it seemed Zygerrians had five, and his suppressants had kept three of them dormant. Now, he’d have to learn how to keep those sounds in check.

Alexsandr also learned about his newfound...culture and their customs, his newfound heritage, though the thought of referring to it with such kind terms made his stomach churn with nausea. It made his chest clench to read of the expansive slave trade, the impressive fortunes made on the backs of people like his mother, his lost sister. People like Orrelios and Chewbacca. The kind of people the Empire threw into labour camps without a qualm — people Alexsandr had helped to keep imprisoned and enslaved.

It wasn’t long until the words _Imperial Assets_ and _Slaves_ became interchangeable in his mind. 

He’d been able to make a distinction between the two before, and now Alexsandr found himself wondering how he could _ever_ have made such a distinction when the methods and outcome were the same. The more he learned about his culture and heritage, and the more blatant parallels he saw with the Empire he’d served for so long, the more he wanted to return to that moon and die of exposure, lost and forgotten.

The more he wondered how his mother could bear to look at him. 

To have him in her house.

Knowing what he’d done, what he’d helped the Empire to do.

Staring at his datapad in silence, Alexsandr scrubbed a hand over his jaw, his nails dragging across his skin hard enough to sting. After a moment or so, he shuffled out of bed and limped to the master bedroom down the corridor, the pained screams of his leg quieter now. Alexsandr pushed the door open to see his mother gazing at a small holophoto, four figures captured in motion and frozen in time, the edges blurring.

His mother didn’t look up.

Alexsandr limped over to the bed and sat down on the edge.

His mother startled then and looked up, a sad smile curling her lips. She patted the space beside her without hesitation and Alexsandr climbed under the blankets automatically, relishing her warmth as it pressed against his side. 

“Your grandparents,” his mother said softly, bringing the holophoto closer. She pointed to one couple and then the other, all four laughing together, though there was an edge of sadness to their features. “Your uncle and his wife. Bail Organa had this captured for me not long after we settled here, so that I would have _something_ of them to hold onto. It isn’t much...but it means the world to me.”

Alexsandr stared at the holophoto, at his family, and wondered how it was possible to miss people he’d never met.

“You’ll see them again one day,” Alexsandr said quietly, surprising himself as much as he’d surprised his mother, but the words rang true in his own ears. He wrapped his arm around his mother and squeezed her close, resting his head against her hair. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“One man can’t fix a galaxy,” his mother sighed.

“No,” Alexsandr answered slowly, his mind a minefield of dangerous thoughts — of Orrelios and the Spectres, of Bail Organa. “No, he can’t.”

* * *

Alexsandr skulked in the shadowed branches of a tall tree, ignoring the building cramp in his thigh as he watched the palace guards continue their patrol. He slipped a gloved hand into his pocket and pulled out a small electromagnetic pulse device, one he’d put together himself with the bits of tech he’d managed to scrounge around the townhouse. His thumb hovered over the button at one end of the short rod. He watched the guards move to the edge of his visual range and pressed the button before leaping from the tree as several lights and cameras flickered out at once. His leap carried him several feet before he had to catch himself at the edge of the upper floor veranda and heave himself up, sending a burst of welcome adrenaline through his veins. Alexsandr darted across the veranda and picked the lock on the traditional door, resorting to the countless skills he’d learned on the job. 

He’d just slipped inside and closed the door when he heard the sound of running steps in the distance.

Alexsandr released a small breath. He didn’t have long to reach his destination and find a spot to conceal himself while he waited for his target. His vision sharp in the darkness, sharper than he’d realised before learning about his heritage, he moved on silent feet. He used the darkness to his advantage, slinking through rooms and down corridors, moving around distressed members of staff searching their pockets for a light source. His lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he reached the office and slipped inside carefully, the guards stationed at the door having run off to secure the family, leaving him free to break in. Using a few solid ornament pedestals as stepping stones, he propelled himself upwards into the corner to the left. Alexsandr slipped himself into the narrow space between the ornate bookcase and the ceiling, using a combination of curling wood and the deep shadows as his cover as the door opened and another pair of guards stepped within. 

A single beam of light swept the room.

Alexsandr held his breath until the light blinked out and the guards closed the door, casting the room into shadows once more. He exhaled and rested his forehead against the top of the bookcase. Getting into the palace and then into the office had been simple, but leaving without detection would be twice as difficult — the guards would be twice as alert.

Of course, that was assuming Alexsandr didn’t get shot before he opened his mouth. But from what he’d seen of the Senator, from what he’d heard from his mother, he had faith that Organa would at least let him speak. He might not believe him. But he’d at least hear him out. Alexsandr was counting on that. 

In the distance, Alexsandr heard rapid steps approaching, heard hushed voices.

The door burst open again and Bail Organa swept inside, his thinning hair a mess, his dark blue dressing gown loose around his shoulders and rippling in his wake.

Raymus Antilles, Captain of the _Tantive IV_ , followed behind him.

“The guards saw no one,” Antilles said as the door closed behind them.

“Seeing no one doesn’t mean the room was empty,” Organa cautioned. He scanned the room slowly, his attention passing over one of the windows, and stiffened a moment later. “It seems we have a guest. Antilles —”

His shoulders tensing immediately, Alexsandr interjected quickly, “You won’t be harmed.”

“Your voice is familiar.”

“Yes,” Alexsandr agreed. “I imagine so. We have a mutual acquaintance. From Zygerria.”

“You can go, Antilles.”

“Your Highness —”

“I’m quite safe.” Organa didn’t turn towards his position. He continued to stare at the window, at whatever had given Alexsandr away, his frame wary, but somewhat less stiff. “Our guest owes me a debt. Go, Antilles. Reassure Breha and Leia.”

Antilles hesitated for a moment longer before bowing and departing, reluctant.

Carefully, Alexsandr eased himself down from atop the bookcase, catching his balance against one ornament pedestal before dropping down to the ground. A painful spark of protest shot through his thigh. He ignored it as he moved through the shadows, stopping behind Organa. He blinked as he spotted what had revealed his presence: his gaze glowed in the darkness, reminding him of a tooka and other nocturnal creatures. Frowning severely, Alexsandr stared at his reflection.

Was that new?

Or had it just gone unnoticed?

“You needed to speak with me?”

“Something I’ve learned has brought some...clarity,” Alexsandr said slowly, pulling his attention from his reflection and focusing on the Senator, on the flicker of interest flitting across his shadowed features, “and I’ve come to offer a proposition.”

Though Organa said nothing, his interest sharpened.

“But I require something in return.”

“What?”

“She needs to be taken somewhere safe, where the choices I make and the actions I take won’t affect her,” Alexsandr said firmly, his heart tight in his chest at the thought of pulling his mother from their home, the one safe place she’d known since her escape from Zygerria. But it had to be done. Alexsandr had to ensure the Empire couldn’t touch her. “Keep her safe and I will swear allegiance to the alliance in a heartbeat.”

“You’ll need to be vetted. Your word won’t be enough.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” Alexsandr moved slowly, retreating to the door. “I leave for Lothal in the morning, Senator, and the blockade will be difficult to circumvent. Your agents had better be prepared.”

“Wait.” Organa started to turn before thinking better of it. “Don’t take the door; the maintenance crew will restore power in a few moments. You’ll be spotted. There is a trapdoor concealed beneath the desk. Take the passage to the underground reservoir and use one of the rebreathers in the chest waiting there. You’ll emerge in Lake Aldera.”

“That isn’t in the Imperial Archives.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You would trust me with that information?” Alexsandr narrowed his gaze. His lips thinned.

“Like I said.” Organa shrugged his shoulders. “You owe me a debt.”

Alexsandr stared at him for a moment or so, his shoulders tense, but nodded and moved where he’d been directed. He slipped beneath the trapdoor without a word and didn’t look back. Not once. He kept moving, slinking through the darkness below, ignoring the increasing complaints from his thigh as the palace fell further and further behind him. Alexsandr found the chest filled with rebreathers fifteen minutes later, took one, and slipped into the water. 

He’d done what he came to do.

There was no turning back now.

Alexsandr ducked under the surface, ignoring the cold to the best of his ability, and dived down to the twisting tunnel at the bottom of the reservoir. He relied on his sharp senses as he kicked through the dark depths beneath Aldera. His leg was killing him long before he reached the surface of the lake, but he kept going, kept kicking, propelling himself towards a future that could be his undoing.

But it didn’t matter.

Not as long as his mother was safe.

Not as long as he made good on his promise to reunite her with her kin. 

And if he couldn’t do so….

Well, there were people who could finish the job for him.

If nothing else, Alexsandr had to have faith in that.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to let me know y'all think.


End file.
